


Anteater

by kosmeja



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-12 08:29:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15335901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kosmeja/pseuds/kosmeja
Summary: Cannibalisim meets sapphic vibes





	1. White Noise

**Author's Note:**

> This was last years pet project and my longest fic to date

It’s almost uncanny, how a person can grow used to the sounds of anguish.

 

Living in the city, anyone can grow accustomed to the sound of cars and passing horns, sirens wailing in the distance. The hubbub of pedestrians becomes white noise, and a similar phenomenon was shown here. Gray walls are stained crimson and although the corpse is screaming, all she can hear is the dying pulse. Unlike movies, murder is  _messy_. Blood? Messier.

 

A black haired dame, clad in a pristine white blouse, runs a sleeve along the bridge of her nose, eyes fixated on the wound inflicted. White noise drowns out her thoughts, but a piece of her knows. “Too much, I cut _too much_ ,” because this idiot had only lied to her. She didn’t mean to kill this one. She was getting sloppy.

 

Hunger had made her  _sloppy_.

 

Such a thought, the idea that her skills weren’t flawless, when she spent so  _long_ learning how to sharpen her edges ( _care for your blade, less it dulls, little Anna_ ) was embarrassing. She was no vampire, yet the room was stained crimson with her mistake, with her rage. Screaming persists, and something makes it’s way through the white noise of it all.

 

“…Preparations?” she catches the end of her assistants question, and turns from her position, hunched over the dying corpse. Remembering herself, she stands tall, straight, with scarecrow-like limbs that seem to hang awkwardly at the joints. She’s on edge, and everyone could see now. There’s a look of confusion on her face, and the stone-eyed attendant repeats himself.

 

“Should we make preparations, now that the mole’s been… disposed?” she can’t remember this one’s name, or his face. All of the crime syndicate was generally the same to her. From a distance, black suits and slacks, work shoes, the dull, forgettable faces that office workers seemed to inherit. The visage of the mundane. This one was no different.

 

“Yes.” she barely recognizes her own voice, weak with hunger and a hint of annoyance. How could she have been so blind to this?

 

No matter, she’d be able to relieve her frustrations soon enough. “Call Wataru and tell him that the next time he tries to undercut my stock, I’ll personally slit his throat.”

 

Wataru Investment Partners, CEO, Wataru Tseng. Anja reminisced her first encounter with the man, who assumed her to be nothing but a secretary like all the men before him. An important partner, nonetheless. His company had shares in some major overseas businesses, and Wataru himself was  _well_ connected. To think that he’d send someone to spy on her…

 

It was almost cute, in some macabre sort of way.

 

The employee scampers out, maybe a little too fast. And the girl looks down to her prey, who’s screams have stopped but whimpering continue still.  _Pathetic_. There’s a minuet cut, right along one of his major arteries, and Anja knows that he’ll bleed out onto the linoleum, she’ll have to wash the blood out of these stockings, again. And pick viscera from her nail-beds for the first time in what felt like forever. Now that they’re alone, there’s a certain kind of… thrill. She’s alone with her prey, she’s  _alone_ and it feels oddly satisfying to see the fear on his face shift into… grief? A morbid kind of acceptance that he’s fated to die here, if he knew the rumors behind her name.

 

“So, you were instructed to steal confidential documents from my office?” her voice isn’t raspy anymore, no. If she had a heart, her voice might have been quivering with excitement. She brushes a manicured finger against his cheek, relishing the frightful gleam to his eyes, the unspoken plea that passed between them. He couldn’t talk, when he was slowly choking on his on blood.

 

“It doesn’t matter, I suppose. You’ve heard the rumors about… me, right?” she says it so sweetly, one would think that she’s referencing office gossip. Promiscuity, a pregnancy, or something as benign. The man’s body goes still with the realization, because even if everyone heard the rumors, no one really believed such a tale until their lives were on the line.

 

French tips press a little harder, now.

 

“They say that a monster roams the streets of this city. Something that tears it’s victims to shreds, like some kind of beast.”  a dying heartbeat picks up in pace, crescendos, and Anja thinks that just maybe, he’ll die of a heart attack before she can finish him off. That’d be unfortunate!

 

“There’s some kind of animal, picking at the scum of the earth, ridding this city of the filthy ants which dwell within. People talk, you know. Because ” _Anja the Anteater_ “ just sounds too good. Too convenient. So behind my back, they whispered.” she balks. It’s messy to talk like this, to give him time to do anything. But in reality, he wasn’t going anywhere. She was just savoring this victory, savoring the taste to come.

 

Crescent-shaped indents are on the man’s hallowed cheek as Anja pulls her hand away, putting it to her mouth in a humored gesture. “You wouldn’t really believe such nonsense, right?” The room is well lit, and he can see clear as day, as the white of her eyes darkened, further, and further, until the sclera was the same dark brown as the pupil, and the woman before him looked more demon than human. A trick of the light?

 

She starts with the face, and drowns herself in the white noise of his resulting screams.

 

When the deed is done, Anja regrets that she hadn’t feasted sooner. She could have killed one of her employees, or maybe one of Tsung’s. But no, she was trying to be above murder, like the gods intended. She wasn’t a monster. Laying in the stomach acids and bone of a corpse implied otherwise, but she knew that deep down, she wasn’t a monster. The white noise persisted, even after the screams stopped, and the Asian found herself entranced by the hue of intestinal remains, the pancreas, little pieces of bone she didn’t bother to eat. His stomach was torn open, internal organs and mesh removed to reveal the bone beneath it all. She didn’t really care for the blood or bone, like beasts of myth. Simply the flesh, the meat was enough for her to be full. So the musculature of his face was visible to the world, tendons hanging and pieces of bone chipped from where she clawed a little too hard.

 

She would have to get a new manicure, probably.


	2. Midnight Snack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You aren't you when you're hungry

Small talk was an art form she’d yet to master. Anja was fluent in 6 languages, one of the youngest kids in her graduate class, and yet, this was her weak point. The warmth of a candelabra, the chatter of married couples and the like, affluent families who could afford to dine in such a high-class restaurant, the busboys with just a little grease beneath their cheeks and waitresses too tired to really care. She had trouble with this aspect of her life, above all else. Orange flame lights her cheeks, and in this light, maybe she’s pretty. A queer thought.

 

“What do I… like?” she sounds perplexed, as if considering the question. Tonight’s bachelor was a green-eyed woman, with flush cheeks and expressive features. Her lips curled when Anja spoke and it made her body feel weird because it was still flattering, that people could be interested in her. She struggles to remember this ones name. Nadine.

 

“I’m a reader, believe it or not.” the words feel rehearsed, and she lets out a noise that might have been a laugh, a little strained, but pretty nonetheless. Guys would have been fooled, but those green eyes remain sharp and it’s been a very long time since Anja’s felt this.

 

Nervousness.

 

“A-and, I paint occasionally. But I’m no Baptiste or anything.” she’s nervous and god knows why. She’s been with women before, with men. Not physically, but she’s known the affections of others at least. It’s awkward to navigate, but doable. Never this. Whatever… this was. Warm fingers press against her own cold hands, and Anja nearly flinches. The nails are short, so clean, no one could have ever known.

 

“Yeah? Do you… paint models?” green eyes, no, Nadine, bats her eyes, and Anja is out of her element once more. Why god, did this woman have to be her connection? Why couldn’t she just get some 40 year old who hadnt’ been touched in their entire lives?

 

At least she had something in common with them.

 

She’s blushing, and she curses her parents heritage for giving her fair skin and maybe next time, she’ll wear less makeup. Oh god why was she thinking about a next time? “U-uh, I could try. But I can’t capture beauty like yours with paint and easel alone.” she laughs because it’s such a cheesy line, it shouldn’t have worked. But it works like a charm, because Anja’s charm is nervous and cute and utterly entrancing. With her hair down, dress on, and blood wiped from the corners of her lips, she was actually pretty. A kind of soft beauty, like the gentle rays of moonlight against ocean surfaces. Something fleeting, gentle.

 

She could pretend.

 

Green eyes is hooked, just like the past suckers. And they’re talking about simple things, favorite music, politics, the most recent episode of a cult classic. Anja is almost sad. Maybe in another world, where she wasn’t consumed by her own hunger, they could have been friends. Anja is the moon in physical form as the red dress slips from her shoulders. For just a moment, she feels humanity. She feels some kind of excitement from the staring that red-eyes does. Her name doesn’t matter, her hair doesn’t matter, because everything is red now. Her nails are short but her hands are still strong enough to crush a windpipe like it’s glass.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” she’s cooing gently as Nadine begins to choke on her own bone and blood. She’s making gurgling sounds, eyes wide and panicked as she uses the remainder of her energy to struggle. It’s a feeble attempt, gently pawing at Anja’s hands that she doesn’t even feel, before the shaking stops and the body is still against her. There’s blood on the crest of her sharp collarbones, and Anja finds herself wondering just maybe, if she should have waited. She could have had sex, possibly? The girl did make her feel alive, briefly.

 

The doubts that make her sloppy are erased, when she smells the blood and reminds herself of her nature. Moments of life were fleeting, with her. But this, it was eternal. She doesn’t use her fingers this time, instead, pushing up the black silk of Nadine’s dress, kissing and biting and really tasting the girl, before her little bites became less teasing and more hungry. Deeper, and then harder as she moaned into the exposed tendon and ripped flesh.

 

“I’m sorry.” she says it again, because she is no monster, she isn’t a demon. A prayer, before she kisses the navel, and dissects the girl like a hog. 

 

The end result is uglier than what she’s used to. This one wasn’t done out of malice, and signs of admiration are strewn across the room. The hollowed remains of Nadine’s corpse are pretty somehow. Anja makes a crown out of intestine and the bile is drawn out to spell her name in cursive. She’d have to take pictures, immortalize it all. This isn’t a murder, no, it can’t be. Even if she feels emptier than the girl with no stomach, laid across her floor like some scarecrow, she wasn’t a murderer.

 

“I’m sorry.” a Hail Mary, and then another prayer whispered. Not for the gods, but for her own protection in the coming days. Something was falling apart here, and she’d be  _damned_ if it was her.

 

-

 

The next morning isn’t as pretty. One of her assistants comes to the apartment to warn her. People would be looking for Nadine because she was kind of important, and she was last seen with Anja in a public place. She made a mistake, and her father would have to be called.

 

None of it sinks in.

 

When the attendant, another black-suit wearing man with a dull haircut and dull eyes, raises his voice to express the urgency of the matter, Anja groans from her position like a moody teenager. She smells of rot and decay, maggots beginning to worm their way through her hair and she couldn’t tell who the dead one was, because dried blood stuck to her nude body and the little decomposers ate it up. She feels some kind of empathy for the bugs, an understanding. They were disgusting, pests to be killed, but they only wanted to eat. They were like a family to her, in a way. She lets the colony of insects continue on their journey through the room, her hair, her body. Everything in here would have to be torched, and she’d be moved. Her father couldn’t be arriving for another day, so there was still time to recover. Her stomach was full, and things could be worse.

 

She picks the pieces up slowly.

 

“Tell… tell Father that I have it handled. By the time he actually gets here to spank me, I’d have moved on from this whole thing anyways.” there’s a bitter tone to this jest, but the attendant doesn’t want to step out of place when his boss is covered in death.

 

Really, Anja could not stand small talk.


	3. Celestial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's an angel!

Today is a momentous day!

 

Rain doesn’t come often enough for her liking, but when it does, it’s a downpour. Thick belligerent storm clouds stand sentinel over the skyscrapers, the fog contrasting heavily to the glow of city life. Rain covers everything in a sleek mirror, turns a simple street, busy with investment brokers and bankers, into a dream. Thunderstorms are always cathartic for her. She needs it, for the week she’s had.

 

“Mrs. Kabarov, your target approaches.”

 

There’s one useful thing about her little gang peons. They were loyal. Either out of fear of death, or stupidity, they were still serving their uses. This one, black tie, white collared shirt and black jacket, just like the others, had been scoping out one of the emptier streets with a pair of binoculars, while Anja looked out the window longingly, as if reunited with a lover, only to be whisked away by circumstance yet again. She was almost childlike today. The room, which was really a futon against one corner, and a stack of magazines in another, was a representation of who she was. Simple. Unreadable.

 

The blood is clean, and there’s no sign that anyone had even had a paper cut here. Anja’s skin is immaculate, as always, and she’s even spotting a pretty little raincoat today! A obnoxious yellow number that  _screamed_ “trauma case”, but she didn’t’ mind much. It’d keep her hair dry.

 

She requested a new target simply because of convenience. It had become painfully clear that some idiot didn’t know the lay of the land. A new pimp was whoring out girls right next to her abode. She’d deal with the distributor of the whores sooner or later. But fresh girls, kidnapped or trapped or confused? This was her chance. This could be more than a meal, and maybe the lookout goon realized this, because he didn’t say a word as Anja opened the window further, allowing stray raindrops to splatter against wood floorboards. She perched on the windowsill like a crow, wind billowing against her yellow cloak. And like a crow, she dove headfirst.

 

Thankfully, the streets were clear due to the unfavorable weather. Except the one person she really wanted, was holed up on a corner, thumbs pressed together as she waited for something. Anja’s feet cracked against the pavement, and gravity forced her legs to bend awkwardly as she regained her balance. Already, the shattered ankles were repairing themselves. As she waited, the gentle patter of rain against cobblestone kept her company. Her target didn’t seem to notice a girl falling from a window, because her eyes were still at the ground and she seemed to be mumbling beneath her breath, lips moving slowly. A prayer, maybe? Anja could barely remember the last time she touched a bible, but the mannerisms of a Catholic were still in her. She still said the daily bread when things became dire, still blessed herself with a hail Mary when she was feeling particularly cursed. So it was interesting to see someone else adhering to a religion.

 

The beast walked on her own, bare feet leading her down the alleyway and to the corner the woman stood at. Closer, Anja could see that this girl was too… pretty for sex work. Not pretty in the conventional sense. Her hips didn’t curve perfectly and her figure was more wispy than hourglass. A dandelion that was beautiful in its own right, but temporary. She held the same kind of gaze that Anja herself had. Unsure, but strong in spite of it. Dark skin without a blemish and a defined collar, visible because of the low bust line of her white dress. Such a outfit was completely out of place in such conditions, but it was untouched, hem flowing out to her ankles. When Anja approached, the prayer stopped and she was faced with a pair of brown eyes.

 

Pretty definitely was the right way to describe the woman before her. Anja wouldn’t be surprised if this hooker was a part time actor, a jazz singer at a nearby lounge, because that’s the air she held about her. Holy, but down to earth all the same. But those eyes remained focused. Empty. Lips didn’t move, and Anja’s hunger was forgotten in place of genuine curiosity.

 

“Ah, are you lost, little girl?”

 

And then Anja remembers her state of dress. Bright yellow raincoat, no shoes. She probably looked like some displaced orphan, or a runaway child. If the beast was better at subterfuge, she would have used this to her advantage, put on the pout and eyes wetter than the city streets. And she would have been lead to safety, to warmth. And like the angular fish, once she was close, once her light had lured them in, she’d strike.

 

But she was  _not_ her hunger.

“I’m from around the area.” Her tone of voice, gentle but clearly mature breaks any illusions made by her appearance. “And I’m twenty-six, believe it or not.” she laughs lightly at the raised eyebrow, before shaking her head, taking refuge with the hooker beneath a awning. These a feeling here, one of familiarity. Her conversations didn’t usually… go like this. The hunger was normally forced back, tucked away to be remembered later. But with this woman, almost immediately it was as if she was never hungry to begin with. There was no need to feast, and conversation didn’t pain her. It was almost like she was young again…

 

She’s getting lost in her own emotions, she doesn’t see the flicker of recognition in the woman’s eyes.

“You’re my age? What a coincidence! I uh, would love to talk but…” the woman is fidgeting, and Anja is reminded that maybe she’s a little… weird. The dark skinned dame is stepping away, reclaiming her own personal space by retreating beneath the safety of her umbrella. She’s not afraid, no. Just wary out of… something else. Anja was confused.

 

“I uh, I’m in the  _middle_ of something.”

 

“Who’s making you stand out here?” The words are sudden, hurried on a parched tongue. Anja’s not uncomfortable with the subject, but she doesn’t have much tact. She  _could_ pretend, but this girl would see through the act. She must be able to.

 

The question makes her new friend hitch in breath, eyes drawn to her in confusion for a moment, before settling on some kind of acceptance. “You’re… you don’t remember me, then? It’s of no consequence. I’m sure the stars predicted this too..” the woman sounded resigned, sighing and pushing a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “You did have awful memory, when we were children.”

 

The words immediately flick a switch in Anja, because she’s not the one in control here. This woman knows something about her, about her childhood, which means that she was dangerous. Her teeth bare, and the hunger still doesn’t return, but she’s fearsome without it.

 

“Who are you?” she doesn’t mean to sound so fearful, because she’s trying to regain control here. The woman must have her mistaken for someone else, right? Right? She’d moved so far away from home after that incident, after her youthful face had been spread all over missing posters, and then wanted posters. She was hidden, and then changed to this. A businesswoman, a diplomat. No one could have known the girl, Anja the child  _never_ existed.

 

Instead of an answer to this, the woman decides to answer something else. “You were watching me, right? I… I owe some men  _a lot_ of money, and they’re making me sell my body to pay up for it. My handler will be here soon. If you wanted to do something, wait until then, Anteater.”  the woman is walking further, further into the alleyway, and Anja is shaken. What was even going on? How was this girl so calm, when faced with a vaguely threatening stranger, and how did she know that name? Her hands are shaking and Anja has to to fold upon herself, until acrylics are digging into her skin. She’s being told what to do, like… like a pet. This girl foresaw the exchange, she knew that Anja was watching, this entire time.

 

She was never prey to be caught.

 

Anja’s frozen in place just long enough to miss the headlights of a car as it pulls up. Her mysterious target doesn’t bother to look back, and Anja’s grateful because she’s sure that her face is fearful now, an emotion the girl could barely remember. The Anteater disappears into the shadows of a nearby avenue, taking refuge in a corner just out of sight.

 

White-dress takes a step forward as a grimy looking man steps out of the car, his face set in an annoyed grimace. “Vonnie! My boys managed to get you something better than a cheap blow. You’re gonna entertain the mayor and his friends tonight.” there’s something  sickening to the look he gives her, and Anja feels her skin crawl at the sight. He’s dressed in a button up and suit jacket, no tie, with dark spots littering the shirt from where the rain pelted him. Brown skin is visible from afar, and she can smell cloves, cigar smoke wafting from his car. Hearing that the mayor was now involved with a prostitute made this entire thing more… complicated.

 

The entire situation, now that Anja was introduced to this weird escort, it was complicated and just what she needed. Something that consumed her, before she could consume it.


	4. The Heist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a big one

“Ah, Ms. Kabarov! It’s a pleasure to have you here.”

 

Anja tries not to squint as her boy toy of the night pulls her into the gala. It’s a relatively crowded, but wide hallways and a spacious entrance gives it a comfortable feeling. She isn’t cramped between shoulders of strangers, of chattering associates who kind of worked for her, or with her. Her brain forcibly switches gears as needed, a tactic learned and mastered for her line of work. Her eyes aren’t hollow and lips aren’t spewing curses and tales of blood drinking demons and hell hounds. She isn’t a lunatic, not a psychopath with an eating disorder.

 

She was the businesswoman that everyone else saw.

 

Black hair that had nearly grown long enough to kiss her sharp collar, exposed by the cream colored dress. Her cheeks were done up with blush and the faintest traces of eye shadow did wonders for the dark circles she was cursed with. Once again, Anja the criminal was born anew. There’s Chopin playing in the foreground, and Anja can make out the decadence of a grand piano illuminated by a stage light. Live performance was always a pleasure, even if none of the noise really mattered. It was interesting to see someone’s expression in the limelight, emotions under a microscope. Upper class folks, actual senators, old and rich men with pretty women wrapped around their fingers, spoke around her. Today’s sucker was another business tycoon, some computer tech guy that seemed to know the ins and outs of the business. He spoke enthusiastically about work, about his own ambitions, as if any of that was attractive. And when his fingers brushed the corner of Anja’s cheek, introducing her as his girlfriend, she smiled. She smiled and resisted the sudden urge to break his fingers, because whatever this mission had become, it was important to her. She had to find out what that girl had possibly known about her past.

 

And the lengths she was willing to go for a stranger, just seemed to be limitless. So she giggles gently and slips manicured fingers around a glass of wine, her eyes jaded and already searching. The ballroom is lit faintly by overhead chandeliers, bathing the socialites and workers in a pale yellow glow. With the music, it might have been romantic, but Anja knew.

 

The person throwing the party, Senator Travis, was a decrepit man. Immoral to no end, Anja knew that the man dealt with drug trade, as well as weapons smuggling. He was charismatic as a person, and she could hear the man, see him smiling with a pretty blonde clinging to his shoulder, giggling at some joke. The man was a baron, a monster in almost the same vein that she was. But they left each other alone. Mostly because everyone was afraid of crossing her, of even doing anything that could be taken as an affront. Because the unassuming ones, those who appeared innocent and pure, they were dangerous. And Anja was no different.

 

Her  date was asking of her profession as she excused herself to he bathroom, to “powder her nose”, pushing her shoulders past the throng of people. The familiar sound of nothingness, static in her ears washing over her, was a blessing. She could focus with that static, because there was a goal here. She was to keep appearances, as well as… do something, about Shavonne. Her minds running away with potential ideas and Anja’s reminded of the burden that comes with being intelligent. When she wasn’t completely dedicated on finding a meal, when she wasn’t devoting her mind heart and soul to killing some poor innocent person, she was actually thoughtful.  _Maybe_.

 

She actually does pause in the bathroom, even though it’s not a part of her original plan. The lighting is low, nice enough to give the 5 star restaurant a dignified aria, and there’s an attendant in one corner, lounging near the mirrors where other women primed their makeup, covered blemishes in their appearance. The monster was a little envious of the skill, something she never really learned herself. She could cover bruises and the businesswoman was adept at covering up her ghastly pale skin, as well as the veins that tend to show in her cheek and neck. So she looks again in the mirror, as if searching for something in the reflection. There’s no hint of a cursed woman, no monster of lore. Simply a businesswoman on her night out, beautiful and bright.

 

The plan was to go off without a hitch.

 

* * *

 

 

Brown skin and equally brown eyes look woefully in a vanity mirror, gentle hands applying mascara with a hand she didn’t know she had. Something, anything to cover up the fear that was written all over her expression. Shavonne was already cramped in the room with 4 other ‘workers’, all gabbing excitedly as if this dinner was the Big Break for them, something that would thrust them all from lives of destitution and strife into the limelight, lobster dinners and gray old men with credit cards. A pipe dream for the working girl. The five of them, plus their 'muscle’ were all gathered in a backroom like strippers would do before appearing on stage. They could hear the chatter of party-goers in a distant room, and the thought that they were the main event was satisfying. That they could satisfy some rich yuppies and make some quick change. Even if this life was… hard at times, and more than a little demeaning. This would be a nice break from it all.

 

Shavonne shouldn’t have been fearful of a certain brunette devouring them all like a wolf.

 

She placed her faith blindly in Anja’s character, solely because the universe must have aligned for them to meet again. For Anja to be motivated to help her in some way. The stars had to have predicted this future, and even if Shavonne followed fate prodigiously, her heart still thrummed with the anxiety of the unknown. When would Anja arrive exactly? Did she plan to free them all before the show? After? What was her plan? They hadn’t discussed it, she simply let Anja watch their exchange. What if… if she didn’t come?

 

“Von, girl, you can’t let the mayor of Paradise see you with that frown.” A gentle pinch to the cheek freeze Shavonne from thoughts of betrayal and nightmarish outcomes, and her chest heaves slightly at the gentle relief her friend provided. Blonde hair, blue eyed woman who smiled at her encouragingly, the kind of smile that made you smile back.

 

“I’m sure he won’t be looking at my face, if you know what I mean. If anything, he’ll be focused on my outfit.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes, a daily routine can be mind-numbing in a good way. The ebb and flow of the morning commute can lull one back to sleep, the structure and order of work, school, social relationships, could all be used as a backbone, measurements of time intervals in themselves, and ways to forget the things one wanted to forget. In Paradise, in the public eye, there was plenty of ways to fill your time. There were numerous ways to fall in place with the the calamity of the city, and it’s denizens took that luxury and ran with it, gambling, partying, learning, just like any other big city. Paradise was vast and filled with interconnected loops of daily routines.

 

In the case of a certain ex-officer, a daily routine served one thing: structure in her free-flow life. Aelita Aarons wasn’t a stickler for routine, but she really did appreciate the stability that it provided in her kind of lifestyle. She stood ramrod outside of a door, the navy blue of her button up looking somewhat dark in the hallway lighting. Even a shady job, could become routine if done enough times. Something like security detail for the mayor, a position much too grandiose for a ex-cop, it was enough to stop her from thinking too much. The bronze skinned woman practically made a game of the job, focusing on little details of her environment. The smell of perfume wafting from the door she guarded, the patter of steps and chatter of people on the ballroom hall below. It seemed a little odd this time around, that she was to stand watch over a room for a majority of the party, instead of standing guard over the mayor. But, gruff 20 year old women probably scared wine-drinkers anyways. This was probably for the better.

 

She’s making a game of it still. Noting the change in details. The girls talking behind the door are quiet now, and in place, the voice of a man. Aelita was almost tempted to crack the door open just slightly, just to see what was going on in there. She’d been told only that it’s a VIP room, for the big shots who didn’t enjoy dancing, but something else was at play, right? It had only been a few hours, but it seemed that no one had entered or left the room.

 

“Did you hear about the…  _special_ entertainment tonight?”

 

Her ears quirk as the elevator at the end of the dimly lit hall opens, and a pair of men come out, neither of them being her mayor. They’re business types, horn-rimmed glasses, reeking of cheap scotch and old paper, and they both notice her, before continuing their conversation.

 

“Entertainment? Oh god, did Wally hire  _another_ fire eater?” She heard of the incident, a pale skinned man deemed exotic was to preform at Mayor Wainwrite’s son’s birthday, only to nearly burn the place down. Aelita smiles at the memory, 'never a dull day, at least.’

 

“ _Heavans_ , no. We might have… procured some hookers.”

 

Aelita tries not to snap her head up in alarm at these words, but her ears do quirk slightly. Her fingers are drumming against her uniform, and for once in her life, she’s grateful for a security job. Even if her badge had been confiscated, she could still report this. She could put a stop to it, in her own way. It was a small distraction, the details of whatever this prostitution ring was, but it was something that would keep her mind off of other details. It could serve as a good distraction, and nice bit of notoriety to her reputation as a private detective, too!

 

Our bronze haired heroine is too busy greedily considering the benefits of this crime, to notice the elevator 'ding’ a second time.  She doesn’t pay much mind to the people who move past her, but she can tell by the mass that they’re all here for the 'after party’. So she really was guarding a room full of party favors? How… mundane. From police investigator to glorified bouncer for the mayor. The man in question walks past her, nodding respectfully as he pulls a…

 

* * *

 

 

Their eyes meet briefly, but it’s enough for Anja. Her teeth feel sharp in her mouth and her instincts are instantly telling her to fight or flee.  _To kill all witnesses, leave no survivors, feast upon her flesh and entrails_. There’s skin peeling beneath the silk fabric of her dress, and she doesn’t try to think, she just wants to act, to feast.

 

Shavonne giggles on the other side of the door, the business mogul can hear her damsel in distress, as well as the other hookers having a blast, hitting it off with rich rigid middle-aged men. But, she couldn’t really judge. It… helps to ground her in a way, as she pauses for just a moment too long, examining the bodyguard for a moment before smiling cordially.

 

“I’m sorry, you’re just  so… pretty. You remind me of someone I knew.” 'Don’t touch her don’t touch don’t touch.’ The words buzz around her ear like a pest, and thankfully the mayor doesn’t stay to watch this display of strangeness. He’s off, entertained by hypnotic waists and women half his age. So Anja could have a moment alone.

 

Aelita seemed to realize this, too, because her fingers drummed at the sidearm strapped to her hip, ready this time, if the beast chooses to strike.

 

Tersely, she responds. “Pretty? Thank you, ma'am. Hope you enjoy the party. Sadly, there won’t be any snacks.” her eyes narrow towards the end of her words, and she follows Anja inside, a new goal in mind. Even if prostitution was illegal, no one deserved to die as a result of it. Her body freezes in place though, because as she turns to move, she feels a finger brushing the freckles on her cheek, cool breath tickling her skin. Aelita doesn’t know who’s watching, but there must be eyes on them, right?

 

“Stay here, Lita. Or better yet, leave.  _Now_.” she wants to cry, she wants to scream because a demon’s touch is on her and Aelita hadn’t heard that nickname since her parents died and everything is coming back to her again, raw, powerful. Her knees buckle, but Anja’s fingers are at the groove of her waist, supporting her up as if she knew this routine by heart.

 

“You will leave within 30 seconds. Without complaint or incident. And you will not try anything. Any scent of subterfuge and you’ll be among the victims.” the threat is genuine, that of the gangster Aelita had known Anja to be. Powerful, merciless when you’d least expect it. It’d been over a decade, but nothing had changed between them. Aelita bites back tears at the kiss pressed between her shoulder and collarbone, and reels out of the room without much protest.

 

With that out of the way, Anja examines the room closely, eyes trying to fixate on what she wanted. Aelita working here was certainly a wrench in her plans, but something that could be dealt with easily. The stage room was dimly lit, and the Russian could make out Shavonne dancing on the pole, spotlight illuminating her smooth skin perfectly, it’s darkness a soft contrast to the stark light of the audience. There’s a serene look upon her face, as she works, and Anja’s almost sad to cut the show short.

 

But it’s cut just as quickly as it’s started.

 

Anja’s que comes in the form of the stage lights going out, throwing the patrons into a room of pitch darkness. Of course, the Anteater’s at home, she can smell the fear and anxiety radiating off of the buzzed patrons, and it excites her as she moves through the crowd, looking for two things in particular. First, a clear escape strategy. The door leading to the elevator would be much too slow, and they’d be spotted going back down, the window was quick, always quicker.

 

The second thing she was searching for, she chanced upon on her way to grab Shavonne.

 

A tiny man, donning pinstripes and smelling of cigar fumes, bumped into her, and when he felt up her hips, asking about her value and if she was looking for work, Anja could only laugh at the fates for the blessing given to her. She bends down, because even without heels, she’d be a head taller than this pimp.

 

“I was looking for you, Donnie! Do you know who I am?” her voice is hushed, amidst the panicked chatter of the room, but her hears loud and clear. He can see those eyes in the darkness, feel claws pressing against his forearm, where he’d just been groping her. And Anja can hear this man’s heart in his chest, hear the arrhythmia, and she can feel just where the blood is halting. Her nails are sharp, and his arteries are like paper as she slowly digs in. Even when he screams, she simply drowns it out with a shriek of her own, inciting panic, as people begin to shuffle around, searching for their phones, for some kind of light. None would come, if her men did their jobs properly. All she needed was someone to jam electrical devices, render mobile devices useless, and bar access to the stage, so no one could fix the lights. This was a closed event, and Anja would get finished with the show before anyone left.

 

“I don’t suppose you do. But oh, do I know  _you._ You’ve been selling out girls on one of the corners I use to sell weapons, you know. A very  _very_ criminal offense. And when I offer you mercy, what did you do?” The voice of satin and honey is sharp here, like a scolding schoolteacher. Benevolent ultimately, but still peeved.

 

The short man gulped fearfully at the realization, his body quaking. “I-I didn’t  _know_ that was gang territory, I swear. I-I’ve learned my mistake, sir, please don’t kill me.” Oh, this was going just too well. In the panic, he didn’t even realize she was a woman, nor, who she was. Even if they hadn’t met face to face, Anja imagined that he would have at least heard of her reputation. A good thing, a blessing, surely, for all of her hard work and her fasting.

 

“You didn’t know, and now you’ll pay for it, dearly.” Anja spots something out the corner of her eye, Shavonne spotting a new petticoat, her fingers brushing along one of the walls, searching for the window. And Anja’s great escape came to a crescendo.

 

“I’ll see you in the next life, baby.” she doesn’t eat this one. No, Shavonne wouldn’t approve and it would be much too gruesome, too much of a mess to clean up. With a practiced skill, Anja pulls the handgun from her purse, the claw stuck in her target still acting as some paralyzing agent, when it was mostly fear and shock. He doesn’t even realize what’s happening, until the cold steel rests against his head. The crowd is chattering, so noisy, so noisy.

 

All is quiet in the deafening blow. There’s no scream of agony from him, simply shock from the others. The sound of breaking glass gives Anja the only cue she really needed, and faster than the winds of heaven themselves, she scoops Shavonne up, jumping through the window in the same fluid motion. The room is confused, scrambling for help. But none come.

 

As the two make their escape into the night, Shavonne can hear two things. The steady beat of rain against concrete, and Anja’s excited giggle as she carries the woman bridal style down a backstreet.

 

What an interesting night.

 

* * *

 

 

They arrive home, to Anja’s quiet little one bedroom apartment, without incident. Even if they’re wet, and Anja’s still laughing, things are good, better. Shavonne thought she’d be afraid, terrified of a murderer. A… monster? But Anja’s just as gentle as she remembers, from the way the wraith goes to put her down, to the way she begins to hack and cough the moment she does, black phlegm and ivory irises marking the appearance of something more…  _otherworldly_. There’s no more laughing, but the hacking and coughing fills the silence as Shavonne tries not to shift uncomfortably in her wet clothes. Comfort was important, but when you were just rescued by a demon(?) mobster, there were more pressing matters.

 

Shavonne’s almost lost in her own train of thoughts, but Anja snaps her from it, breathing long enough without interruption to actually form sentences.

 

“You… aren’t afraid of me?” the monster wheezes, walking towards a mini fridge in the corner of the room, pulling out a darkly colored bottle of some kind of port, taking long swigs. Anja doesn’t seem too shameful, but she knows her true 'form’ is ugly. It’s suppose to be hideous because it’s a curse and gnarled fingers, eyes without light, that’s supposed to put fear in your heart. The stuff of nightmares. But instead, the curly haired damsel stared back into her darkness, her eyes demure.

 

“I’m supposed to be? It’s just… I never really expected  _this_ is why you moved, Anj” the nickname cuts deeper than she means, than she knows. No one calls her that, not even her father. And the words remind her of something. One of the downsides to this whole arrangement would be remembering the past. Having a reminder of it around. Speaking of reminders…

 

“I saw Aelita tonight.” her voice is twisted, but still gentle somehow. Like someone had meticulously rubbed the inside of her throat with razor blades, but kept her vocal nodes intact just so she may speak in the same melodious tone. It was almost jarring. “She was a bodyguard. Do you think… she planned that? Knew that I was there ahead of time?” it’s something that bothered her only because she hadn’t been prepared for surprises, even if she was a woman who lived and died by improv.

 

At the news, Shavonne’s eyes quirk. “You two saw each other, and you didn’t attempt to kill her? I guess the stars really have aligned for us to meet again, huh?”


	5. Bad Dream///Dead End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, for something different

Surprisingly, it’s not raining this time.

 

A young woman could feel the wind whooshing against her ears, sun stalking her backside and sweat creeping down her brow. The fringe of her bangs are thin enough for her to see that even if there was no rain, the city remained the same. The same old neighborhoods and old dusty haunts that used to be distant memories were appearing before her now. It was almost as if she had been thrust into a old photo, given the chance to reminisce on memories of a distant past, a childhood that was taken from her too soon. The expansive quality of tall gray buildings, bodegas and discount stores, offices and even a park off in the distance, comforted her. It spoke of a busy city, of life and energy and  _belonging_. As a child, she could remember these exact stores, the excitement of exploring with friends. But, that was not  _now_ , and she wasn’t frozen in time. As a kid, the streets weren’t barren and the world wasn’t this quiet.  What was this place..? She presses onward, bare feet warm against the cool concrete of a city street.

 

Slim fingers brush the wall of a nearby store, and the coarse texture of stone beneath her nails brings the woman back. The sensation was enough to ground her to a reality that she just _… couldn’t_ accept. The redhead paused at the corner of the street, hand still splayed against the wall as the memories, the truth, all came rushing back to her.

 

She didn’t live here anymore and those sweet memories were  _ruined_ by the appearance of a monster. This peace and calm wasn’t the reality at all. And even if it’s a sunny day, she could recognize that this was still a dream, a  _nightmare._

 

With that shaking realization, things began to fall apart. There was something coming, and she  _felt_  that it was near. Creeping upon her and suffocating like a miasma, in spite of in the sunlight and warmth that this day brought. And as she found out in the past, daylight wouldn’t protect her from any demon. So preparing for the worst, the Latina pays close attention to the shadows around her, hoping to catch it with her eyes before waking up.  _‘That’s it, focus on a new goal each time, drown out the fear. And you’ll overcome it.’_ A soothing thought that she might be in control for once. It’s comforting to imagine that this time, she wouldn’t be hurt. She might be…

 

“You can’t face your demons with your eyes closed, you know.” A gentle voice, so close,  _too_ close, breathes against her neck.

 

She  _refused_ to scream, biting down on her tongue with incisors hard enough to draw blood. Her position, hunched beside the wall and pressing her palm flat against it for protection, was flipped. Instead of looking keenly for something she couldn’t see, she’s pinned against the sandstone. The wind is howling now, and she’s still silent. This was a fever dream, not reality.  _Not reality_.

 

Nails sharper than glass pry into the flesh of her neck, jagged edges tearing her throat into a shocking form of art. Blood splatters on the yellowed brick, and the brunette chokes out a scream, trying desperately to see the hand, the woman that she knew. She  _knows_  this assailant. Something painful rips through her, but it’s not the monsters’ talons or fangs. It’s a scream, hoarse and disgusting and not  _hers_. Her voice, loud and prideful, could never let out such a lowly, pathetic wail. She was stronger than this. Right?

 

Blood pours from her mouth and she’s kicking around, desperate for some kind of release. Any relief from the anguish of having her throat cut open and her windpipe slit like paper would be a blessing. From the shock of this assault comes something new. Her body isn’t in her control anymore, the thrashing stops, even if she can feel the burning sensation of… of  _something_. She can’t breathe, her throat feels like it’s been impaled, even though she can see the hand that was suffocating and killing her, again. She couldn’t face these demons, not  _now_. The woman was virtually an invalid at the mercy of some higher power.

 

Her eyes close and the next scream racks her body into a shaking fit.  The noise made is more of a guttural wail, the sound of an animal on its hind legs. She has to survive this time,  _she has to_ , she has -

 

“Open your eyes and look at me, Aelita.”

 

There’s a finger at her cheek, pressing into it affectionately. The woman who’s questioned almost recoils on instinct. If she had any control of her body, she would have. But instead, she whimpers in refusal. There has to be some way out of this nightmare, some way to  _win_. Would it be over with her death?

 

“No, sadly. I  _really_  wish that were the case, but you’re always having these dreams to remember something, right?” the monster is talkative today. The redhead imagines it to be smug, familiar with her in a way that no one else was. The other side of an intimate lover, maybe. Bitter, angry. Dangerous.

 

“You’re  _close_. But no cigar.”

 

The monster reads her mind like an open book, and the former policewoman doesn’t have the energy to be surprised or terrified. Instead, she tries to handle an immediate task to distract herself. Survival. She can’t move her body, can’t open her eyelids any further. The only freedom she was allowed was control of her breathing and even  _that_  wasn’t much, considering the hole in her throat.

 

“Look at me,  _Lita_. I won’t say it again.”

 

There it is, the nickname that only one person used. With the same flit of an accent that she could barely identify, this shadow had to be a doppelganger. A bad memory, because the person who’d use that nickname was long gone, hopefully dead. But… but…

 

Finally, the victim could see. The ghost who’d haunt her till the end of days, the one responsible for those gruesome murders, unspeakable crimes against humanity. The demon took the form of something almost human, as a joke. Slim, pale skin and lips kissed with blood and flesh. The only sign of its nature was the hollow quality to its eyes. Black irises on blacker pupils, like staring into an empty skill. A smile split upon bloody lips, and it laughs.

 

“I guess it’s time for me to  _eat_.”

 

The wind can’t drown out her howls of terror, of pain. On a clear, sunny day in Paradise, Aelita Aarons is murdered.


	6. Father Dearest

“I really,  _really_  don’t want to do this.” Shavonne’s voice is laced with unease as she watches an exuberant Russian girl dress. Anja’s humming to herself, ignoring the woeful eyes of her captive and Vonne feels smaller in the space of her apartment. Clothes are being thrown in a chaotic fashion and she can hear the demon cursing to herself as she struggles to find something, anything to wear.

 

“You’ll have a  _blast_. Besides, my dad doesn’t know you so this should be fine.” the mobster is halfway through pulling a gray cardigan over her chest, frail arms struggling somewhat with the task. “Ah, a little help?”

 

Shavonne is hesitant to even be going on this… outing, but she’d be a good friend. The stars had arranged for this, clearly. Fate would only have Anja’s father call the day after Shavonne had been rescued, because he wanted to see his daughter again. And when she’d been told that she was to accompany her, Shavonne could only accept this duty as fate, a whim and circumstance only made possible by the stars that be.

 

So she assists Anja in dressing, shaking her head. “I didn’t imagine you and your father would even be close. You don’t really seem like… a daddy’s girl.” but what did  _she_  know? Shavonne couldn’t see this meek, kind of weird woman as a killer, let alone a monster. Maybe she wasn’t a decent judge of character? That was always Aelita’s forte anyways.

 

“I’m  _not_ , and insinuate that I am again and I’ll gouge your eyes out with these nails, Von.” the threat, gruesome as it may be, is made mostly in jest (even if Shavonne had witnessed the monster preform similar feat by this point). Her tone is sharp, but it’s hard to take Anja seriously with she’s pants less. So Shavonne gives her an easygoing smile instead, nodding.

 

“Right, right, death and destruction and gore if I dare oppose you or mention your misdeeds or whatever. I get it.” she can’t fear for her life, doesn’t bother to check Anja’s reaction, solely because Shavonne can accept whatever fate throws at her. She dresses with less of a hassle, wearing something a little more formal than her usual look. A peach colored blouse, along with a lavender skirt is enough to give off the aura of ‘orderly’ that she’s going for. If she showed up to a lunch date in her hooker garb, the man would probably know something’s… off.

 

Shavonne manages a smirk at the thought, looking to Anja as they make their way out the door. Already she can feel eyes on them and it’s something the mauve haired girl would never be used to. Before it had been the opposite, crowds of people going far lengths to just avoid looking at her on the streets, and when she found work, eyes on her  _body_ , never her face. Never really on her. But she could feel the gaze of security, Anja’s personal gangsters, piercing through her like morning light. Invasive, but ultimately good.

 

Fingers brush against her forearm, and Von looks to her side, eyes down slightly to see Anja smiling at her reassuringly. “You’re not… nervous, right? I’m sorry for getting you roped into this but ah…” the mobster pauses, a foreign feeling taking her. She’s at… a loss for words. She couldn’t outright explain that she didn’t want Shavonne to leave her sights. The girl probably wasn’t a flight risk, more so that her life was in  _danger_ , by proxy of knowing Anja now. But she couldn’t just outright explain this.

 

“Ah, my dad’s always been harking at me to make friends. Like, get out with people my age.” which was  _true_ , coming from the crime lord and industrial tycoon who’d prefer to sleep in her offices than go on coffee dates with gal pals. This was killing two birds with one stone, satisfying her father’s arbitrary request, as well as making Shavonne just a little more comfortable with this situation.

 

_'Why do I care about her comfort?’_

 

* * *

 

“You’re telling me, you got out of Paradise and decided to come  _back_?” Shavonne sounded aghast at the suggestion, her lips parting into surprise. Anja could only roll her eyes in response.

 

“You make it sound like this place is a prison. I only left for college. My grades were too good for the local uni and I wanted… space.” once again, the Anteater is scowling slightly. Von could only imagine that it’s because of a bad memory. That’s generally why people left home, right? But she doesn’t push, doesn’t make any attempt to pry further.

 

“I understand! Hey, you didn’t tell me we were going to some fancy place. I thought your dad liked burgers and diner grease.” It had been nearly two decades now, but Shavonne could still distinctly remember mornings where she’d be picked up by Anja’s father and the younger Kabarov would offer her some overly salted breakfast food in a wet paper bag. To this day, that’s how she’d seen the man. Distant, but smiling. Smelling distinctly of something greasy and warm.

 

But the assumption makes Anja snap from her reverie as she snorts. “Uh, no. After the whole… incident. He was obsessed with eating healthy. No more diner slop, he’s all about high class and wheat grass.” the joke is bland but she’s smiling anyways, freckles just a little brighter in the summer sun, gap tooth shining slightly.

 

Shavonne was convinced that her friend was made of stars and nothing more, as they entered the restaurant.

 

“My god. ” her fingers run along marble walls, the sound of a trickling fountain hushing her awe. Shavonne was a city girl at heart, born and raised in corner stores, pharmacies and department stores with wares older than she was. The fanciest restaurant available was some local burger chain (that Anja likely owned now, actually). And she had only seen that diner as a reward growing up. A few choice visits before both her parents untimely demise, and then a few times with the girls, grabbing a light snack after a show. Never high class, where there was likely a suit and tie dress code. And suddenly, for the first time in recent memory, the woman felt insecure. The stars wouldn’t judge her state of dress, but the other patrons might, right? She could already feel eyes on them, whispering and -

 

“Von?” Anja’s voice was tinged with something close to… worry? Her taller friend looked to her, as if confirming something. “I was asking if you’re ready. My dad already got us a table and said he’d be here shortly.” she eyes the person in charge of reservations, who’s looking at the two expectantly. In her reverie, the two must have had a fully conversation. Embarrassed, Shavonne could only nod, sticking close to the woman as they were lead to a table in the back of the. Somehow, in the midst of the afternoon, the place was comfortably dark, lit by candelabra on each table and overhead lights. Waitresses walked with an easy elegance from table to table, and Shavonne could hear no crying kids, no rowdy workers, just… peace. The sound of a violin playing somewhere unseen, maybe over a radio, and that fountain which served as the centerpiece for the restaurant.

 

They were lead past the main attraction, to a table near the back of the establishment, and something kind of… ticked in Von’s head. In understanding of this kind of positioning. A table away from windows, out of sight of prying eyes, where the overhead lights just barely missed. This was strategic?

 

Her suspicions are confirmed when they sit, and the waitress hands Anja a thick wad of bills. “Thank you for helping me out with that creep, Anja.” the woman smiles and when the Anteater stares at her blankly, she takes her cue to leave before things are too awkward, leaving Shavonne to stare, full lips agape at the sight of the money.

 

“You…?” an unasked question, easy enough to decipher.

 

“The night I kidnapped you and killed your pimp. He had a few… unsatisfied customers. Mostly girls with sisters, druggies turned a new leaf, that kind of thing. That one,” she nods over to the waitress, who’s uniformed figure is off in the distance talking with a busboy. “Owed James a  _lot_  of money. And paid me a small sum to get rid of him.” she talks of work, of  _murder_ , with an ease that surprises Shavonne.

 

“So, you saved me and killed him because you were  _paid_  to?” the stars couldn’t have predicted that, right? She was simply supposed to be reunited with a long lost friend, tie in mysteries unsolved from her past. The stars were  _supposed_  to-

 

“I saved you because you wanted to be saved. The money is yours, actually. I wouldn’t have taken the job without you as motivation.” she pushes the rubber-band bills across the table and Shavonne is left slack-jawed again. What kind of fate would have… this?

 

“You’re just paying for my silence, right?” her eyes narrow slightly in annoyance as she meets Anja’s gaze again. “I told you, I don’t mind staying with you. I’m not going to blab or anything, I’m not  _stupid_.”

 

“Someone just offered you  _two grand_ , and your first instinct was to turn it down? Sounds pretty stupid to me.” Vonne nearly jumps out of her seat at the unknown voice behind her, a husky laugh marking the arrival of Anja’s father.

 

He takes a seat next to his daughter, Shavonne on the opposite side, and she can clearly see the family resemblance. He’s smiling, where his daughter looks vaguely miffed and uncomfortable. But they both have the same facial features, soft jawline and defined collar, slender fingers. Anja was taller by a head and a shoulder, but her father was  _big_. Where Anja lacked sustenance and muscle, her father held it. He looked the part of a retired gangster. Graying hair, thick, curled muscles masked beneath a fine suit jacket and shirt. This wasn’t the greasy, stay at home father she recalled from her childhood. That light was still in his gray eyes, but it was… calculated. Just what happened? What could have caused this kind of change?

 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Vonnie.  _Gods_ , you’ve grown to a beautiful thing, huh?” he reaches out to touch her curls and the girl easily shrugs away, fixing her composure by letting her fingers run through her hair. He laughs at the movement and continues speaking. “When Anna had called, said that you were in town and you two had met at the banquet, I was thrilled. Anna here was  _never_  the same after you moved, you know. Spent days in her room crying, burning those friendship bracelets you made, and the pictures y'all drew, and she even-” he’s stopped by a groan of annoyance.

 

“Stop it Dad, she knows I’m a killer. You don’t have to act like I’m the perfect  _pixie_  little daughter you wanted.” even if he was joking, Anja’s tone was genuinely bitter, and Shavonne couldn’t recall anything getting the Anteater annoyed since meeting her again. Her typically pale skin was beginning to flush at the knuckles, and she was panting, as if the words had stolen her breath.

 

At this information, Alexi’s easygoing expression falters. It doesn’t fall, but the mirth leaves his eyes as he stares sharply at Von. “So you’re a prisoner, or an accomplice?” the words are quick, just like his decision, and Shavonne’s head is spinning. The stars couldn’t have prepared her for this kind of encounter, even if her faith was unshakable.

 

“Accomplice.” she replies without hesitation. She can see the intent of a cobra in his controlled posture. Was this entire outing meant to be a  _trap_  for someone? Did they have this restaurant teeming with thugs? People who could clean up the mess dead bodies left? A sobering thought, to imagine that this expensive meal might be her last.

 

The steel wilts from his posture, and once again, he’s smiling. This time, it’s genuine. Lines of age along his eyes and the corners of his mouth. “It’s just…  _nice_  to see someone from the past. I’m sorry to have put the muscle on you like that, but I’m trying to be sure Anna’s best interests are kept.” It’s the concern of a worried father that catches Shavonne unaware again. She was typically a decent judge of character, but when it came to Alexi, someone she thought was sane, she couldn’t pin him. Could he be genuine here? Happy to see her?

 

“You invited Anja here to kill her? Or, kill me?” the inquisition is at her lips before she can stop herself, and Anja’s glare notably shifts from her father to Shavonne, who wilts immediately.

 

“If I wanted you  _dead_ , you would have been my lunch Von.” she hisses. The animosity doesn’t shake her father’s smile, as he simply slaps the back of her head like a misbehaving dog.

 

“That’s rude, Anna. Apologize.”

 

“What, why the  _fuck_ -” she’s slapped again, and this time, the force of the hit shakes the table and Shavonne could hear a discernible crack of bone splitting. Anja whimpers, biting her lip softly.

 

“O-okay, I’m sorry Shavonne. That was harsh.” Shavonne feels more terrified seeing the tears well up in Anja’s eyes, the woman who had killed a man in cold blood without flinching, was near tears in a public restaurant. It was very contrary to the image Shavonne had painted in her head. And the smile on her father’s face, despite what he had done…

 

“That was harsh, Anna. Maybe I won’t get you dessert today.” he’s scolding her like a loving father, joking and laughing.

 

“It’s Anja…” the words are a whisper and the monster isn’t meeting his gaze anymore. She keeps her head bowed very slightly, shoulders tight as if bracing herself for another slap. Something tight is welling in the star child’s chest. Violence like this reminds her of a memory she can’t place. She can’t place  _any_  of this. Can’t see the smiling, greasy old man who used to feed her before school, or the pale little girl who was always in the nurse’s office, drawing or dreaming. She might have been holding on to the past, but this wasn’t the same pair of people.

 

She’s cut from her thoughts just as sudden as the smack that shakes Anja’s body. The strength that rocks her form is strong enough to make her grip the table immediately, splitting the wood beneath the white tablecloth. There’s a trail of blood running down one side of her head, tears welling up but refusing to fall. The face that was once simple and jovial was now tighter. Shavonne could see a vein in the man’s temple, teeth gnashing in frustration.

 

“What have I told you about  _saying_  that name? Tha’ ain’t ya  _fucking_  name, Anna. Never will be, either.” he’s yelling, and Shavonne can’t hear the violin anymore. Can’t feel the eyes on her. Even in a resturant full of people, the crushing tension that these two so easily created had deafened her. It felt like they were the only ones in here, the only people around for miles. And Shavonne was  _afraid_.

 

“She likes being called Anja. What’s wrong with that?” her voice is soft, fingers brushing the crisp edge of her(?) money. Naturally, she couldn’t look to the man, but she could speak up for her friend, right?

 

The room is quiet, Anja’s desperately staring at Shavonne, hoping that she stays quiet from here, while Alexi is unblinking, thinking. As if he’d been slapped, he reels back slightly, eyebrow quirked.

 

“She 'likes’?” he sounds confused, as if the words were foreign. “I will call this greasy little  _bitch_ whatever I want, and she will answer to it. It’s not about what she likes, and if you have any-” he suddenly reaches for her and Shavonne screams without hesitation. She’s weak, not like Anja. Not a gangster at heart, barely a hooker, even. She couldn’t stay unflinching in the face of danger, so she would scream instead, close her eyes and pray that this would be over soon.

 

But he never hits her.

 

“I-I’ll do it, Dad. Please leave my friend alone. For your little girl?” Shavonne knows that’s Anja’s voice, but she can’t imagine the words on the cold woman’s lips, nor that tone. It was sugary sweet. Higher than the baritone Anja had developed. This wasn’t the girl she had barely began to know again? What was going on? What were they talking about? Money?

 

She would never find out, because she’s thrust from the man’s grip just as suddenly as she’d been hefted, and the woman sputters, fingers feeling for any leftover bruises on her dark skin.

 

“For my girl? Anything! That’s all I wanted to hear, you know. That’s why you’re both here. I wanted to see my baby girl show just the  _slightest_  shred of humanity, instead of this heartless businesswoman bullshit.” he spits and Shavonne’s crying now, but she doesn’t know why. Fear? Embarrassment? Everything was confusing and she was owed an explanation for all of this.

 

“I’ll send instructions to the apartment within a week. It’s been nice seeing you again, Anna.”

 

“N-nice seeing you too, daddy.”

 

There’s a slight pause, like the world is given a moment to catch up with the Calbarovs, and there’s something incredibly human to the tightness in Anja’s shoulders when a waitress approaches, handing her a napkin and smiling as if nothing had happened. Vonn is confused when Anja grabs her hand, confused with the words that leave her mouth.

 

“You’re shaking, Star.” it’s gentle, a reminder that Anja really isn’t scary like she seemed at first glance. Even with blood crusted at the corner of her temple, nails digging into the flesh of her palms, she wasn’t intimidating in the same way her father was. She wasn’t… unstable. She watches as the man in question gets up, smiling gently as if he hadn’t just assaulted her and his daughter mere moments ago.

 

“Star. Ah, I do remember you being interested in astrology and the 'power of the cosmos’ as a kid. That still holds true?” he’s trying to strike up conversation, even though Shavonne is really not a fan of him. She shudders, and he laughs, relenting. “What an ungrateful fucking brat. And  _stupid_ , too. When my daughter eats you alive, just remember, I gave you a chance to die here. Peacefully.” he makes that his salutations, one of the staff handling him his coat and chatting him up as he walked towards the entrance. Shavonne could only stare after the man, furious. Embarassed and terrified, too. But mostly furious.

“I hate your dad. That’s what you dealt with for years?” she hisses, watching as some of the tension finally begins to leave her friend’s shoulders.

 

Anja responds with the visceral crack of her neck realigning along her shoulders, as she 'fixes’ it into place. “That’s why I left, Von. I’m… sorry, you had to see and deal with that. If I could… I should have warned you maybe. But then he would have  _known_  I’m paranoid around him and -” she’s cut off by the sudden force of a girl shorter than her hugging her fiercely.

 

“I’m not blaming you for your father’s cruelty. You’re nothing like him, Anja. Nothing.” Shavonne could see it now. The cold quality to Anja’s eyes while she was on the job, the way she would look… distant momentarily, when she was alone, things seemed to add up when presented with Alexi Kabarov as a father. The man was beyond despicable. Why would anyone do such a thing, just to get their daughter to do something.

 

“What did he bully you into doing? Is it sex? Maybe I could… help? Or take your place?” Shavonne’s a scapegoat. It was written in the stars that she was self-sacrificing and cowardly all the same, and it was true, but she wouldn’t display cowardice to a friend in need.

 

Anja looks to her in confusion, and then disgust. “Oh, no. You don’t need to do something like that for me. He wants me to…” the emptiness comes back to her eyes, and she’s shaking again. “I-I’m, sorry I-” Shavonne could feel the panic in her tone and she’s shushed by the same arms holding her tighter.

 

“We don’t have to talk about it. This is the kind of day that requires copious amounts of alcohol to forget.” she reassures the woman gently. They’re hugging it out in the middle of a private establishment, but Shavonne couldn’t care less about her appearance now that she knew the sinister truth.

 

“Actually…” she gives a smile, lifting up the stack of hundred dollar bills. “I just came into some money recently, if you want a drink.” it’s something shared between friends, an air that Shavonne gives off that just feels inviting and familiar. And Anja can’t scowl this time. Her eyes are watering, but she’s still not crying.

 

“I need enough liquor to put myself in a coma.”

 

“I can work with that, I think. Come on! I know this nice little place on the other side of town.”


	7. Love is A Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you feel it, in the air?

The lights of Cadavellia are low and Anja could smell something strong, hops and old champagne, clinging like a ghost to wooden floors and stools. From the moment she and Shavonne stepped into the murky pub outside of the Red Light District, Anja couldn’t help but feel… bitter. Raw, as if she’d been rubbed against a metal grater, or smacked by a disciplined hand. The aroma of home cooking and drunkards seemed to take the air out of her step, because she could feel the color draining from her face, from her irises, as they sat at a booth.

 

“Where did you  _find_  this place?” even if Anja couldn’t remember this girl to save her life, couldn’t remember the past as well as the star child, the businesswoman had never taken Shavonne for one who favored… grime and dirt. Establishments her cronies likely enjoyed, where you can smoke in peace or gamble without watching eye. Bars like these weren’t made for bright eyed, dark skinned girls made of stardust and hope.

 

She doesn’t say this, but Shavonne understands the intent of the question nonetheless and scoffs. “Back when I was a dancer, I used to give live performances here. Got free meals and complementary drinks in return.” she understands that there’s a gap of knowledge between the two, little tidbits of information neither could know about each other, given the distance and time that had passed. But Shavonne wanted to speed up fates, she wanted her friend back. So it would start with erasing the ugliness of her past and replacing it with a night of chatting and drinking.

 

“Dancer?” the woman’s eyebrows don’t raise, but she meets Shavonne’s gaze in surprise now.  _‘As in, a stripper?’_  she nearly asks. It would make perfect sense, the line of professions that lead to her becoming a prostitute for a notorious dealer. Instead of answering her question, Von simply smirks, looking past Anja momentarily to completely dodge the question.

 

“Ay, Darlene could we get a few drinks?” her voice is loud and confident, qualities Anja hadn’t seen thus far. Couldn’t place them to the wide eyed, cryptic destitute.

 

“Vonnie, is that you? Lookin’ like a million bucks!” Anja’s guard goes up as she feels a towering presence approach, but when the figure hugs Shavonne, she relaxes very slightly. The barmaid behind the counter was rather stereotypical, endowed and makeup well done, and body smelling of perfume and martini mix. There’s a mole on her cheek, and she has a red bow in her hair, along with heart-shaped stickers on her hands, kind of like a child.

 

Shavonne squeals at the hug and kisses the woman’s cheek. “Ah! It  _is_  Valentine’s Day, isn’t it?” as if she was suddenly remembering something very important. She put a hand to her chest dramatically, reaching out to this Darlene woman as she took her seat again. “My one true love, me and my friend require alcohol and  _lots_  of the good stuff. Maybe I’ll be yours, afterward?” she’s cheesy, to the point where Anja could only roll her eyes and put on an amicable smile. She didn’t want to scare off any of her friends’ business partners.

 

The woman could only scoff bashfully, her cheeks warm. “Oh, you’re too much. Is your date okay with you talking about other women that way?”

 

“I’m not her date. We’re roommates.” Anja says easily, before adding. “Ah, could you maybe bring me some tomato juice? Or a Bloody Mary? I would prefer that to liquor.” it’s something she’d nearly forgotten, but with the already light feeling in her chest, and the dull pain to her head, she probably shouldn’t drink. Alcohol was distasteful anyways.

 

She braves the strange looks she gets in return, but the bartender doesn’t say anything to judge. “Okay, Ms. Roommate. One Virgin Mary and a gin and tonic, coming right up.” she twirls on a heel in a grace that makes Anja wonder if  _everyone_  around here was an actor or dancer, and then she’s off to the counter, mixing and shaking something before their eyes. The moment the patron leaves she can feel Shavonne’s breath tickling her neck.

 

“You  _do_  know that Bloody Marys’ don’t have actual blood, right?” there was a scandalized tone to her voice, and Anja quirks a brow. Her normally stoic face is set in an expression that’s… confusion.

 

“Um… yes? I’ve had plenty before. Why would I… drink blood?” It seemed a bit mundane to her, if she was given a fresh corpse. She didn’t enjoy bodies just _because_  they had blood. There was the feeling of flesh and viscera on her tongue, shards of bone sliding down her throat like a hard candy, that kept her addicted to that kind of feast. But blood was mostly just an aftertaste. Bitter, ferric.

 

“You’re a vampire, why  _wouldn’t_  you drink blood?” the response is given in such a fashion that makes Anja sputter, her blank eyes turning to confusion, and then mirth, as she chuckled. The laugh, the thought of dressing up as a vampire, sharp fangs, long black cape, made her laugh a little harder, until her balking was easily heard by any other patron in the bar. Shavonne looked embarrassed, cheeks puffed out in annoyance. She was asking a simple question, it was common sense for Anja to drink blood, right?!

 

“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” she’s wiping the tears from her eyes with a sleeve, shaking her head. “I just… I didn’t expect that. I’ve heard a lot of assumptions over the years, but no one’s ever thought of me as a  _vampire_. Oh!” she leans forward, as if poking one of Shavonne’s cheeks, and the woman could only wilt under the gaze of dark irises and a bright red smile, Anja’s lipstick clashing with the pallor of her skin. She’s actually… jovial? The joke, the feeling of laughter she’d gone so long without, was out just as easily. The weird girl who always talked about fate and the stars, had made her laugh.

 

And Shavonne was stuck. Embarrassed to be the victim of laughter, but surprised that such a melodious sound could leave Anja’s lips, that the girl she saw as a socially and emotionally stunted gangster was… humane.

 

“I shouldn’t laugh at my friends, that’s rude. Forgive me?” her eyes are genuinely sweet and Shavonne could feel the heat beginning to creep into her face, even if the night was mildly cool. She nearly cursed, because this was not how things were supposed to go. They were going to get drunk and  _talk_ and befriend each other.

 

But maybe? Laughter brought people together, right? Maybe she was on the right track, the stars were guiding her, so she had to believe.

 

“You’re forgiven, weirdo.” she sticks her tongue out and when the bartender returns with their drinks, she’s quiet just long enough to take a few sips from her glass. “Why order a Bloody Mary then? And why without the vodka?” this is hopefully a smart enough question, because Shavonne’s chest couldn’t handle anymore ridicule at her own expense. She wanted to get her friend to open up, but was it really worth it?

 

* * *

 

 

Aelita certainly didn’t see the worth in a holiday that reminded so many people of their loneliness. Fingers curl around a set of dumb bells, and she silently hefts the weight against the strain and protest her muscles offer. The trainers around the gym were missing their typical blue and yellow uniforms today, instead spotting pink or red, heart shaped insignia with the gym company’s logo on the breast pocket. Even  _here_ , she couldn’t escape reminders of it.

 

Her brain lost count of how many times she lifted the dumbbells, but it was probably enough, judging from how the au latte skin of her forearms quivered when she paused. The place wasn’t crowded, but it was occupied enough for her to think about a little modesty, considering she only wore her sports bra and shorts, rust colored hair tied in a short bun, sun-kissed cheeks wet with sweat.

 

Her muscles burned with exhaustion, her mind hazy with the idea of being watched, but she didn’t allow herself to stop here. Her blood boiled, heated her further to another exercise. Larger barbells, easily the size of her head, are picked up from the display set, and she starts with a soft grunt, counting the repetitions of the motion,  _up, and down, and up…_  with the repetition of her breaths. Valentine’s Day wasn’t something to mourn, no. If she had the energy to be annoyed about anything, she could push that energy into some exercise!

 

“Uh, uh, ma'am, are you okay?!” the jolt of someone touching her shoulder makes Aelita drop the barbells at her side instantly, trance snapped. Dammit, she was close to finishing too. Her face is warm, and she looks up from her seat, eyes meeting with one of the trainers. Blonde hair, pretty little mole on her cheek, and hair pinned back with a heart-shaped clip, Lita certainly didn’t recognize this woman from work, or  _anywhere_ , really. So… what was wrong?

 

She had asked if she was okay…

 

“Uh, hello? Do you need a tissue. Y-your nose…” she points to her own face, as if trying to illustrate something. Lita’s confusion grows, as she presses a finger against the sweat running down her nose, pausing when her fingers come back red. Thick eyebrows raise in slight surprise, was she  _really_  that pathetic? Her body couldn’t handle a little exercise? A pit of frustration welled in her, and burned at her lungs, but she offered nothing to the trainer on this.

 

“Thank you.” the words leave her lips quickly, and she pushes herself up, discovering her legs to be too weak to even support her. In the same gruff motion, skinny legs buckle, and she stumbles. The only thing that stops her fast descent into the floor was a pair of hands and a body that smelled of sweat and lightly sweet perfume.

 

“Careful! You must have overexerted yourself with those weights.” it’s weird, someone’s telling  _her_ what to do, the same gentle hands pass her a handkerchief, the trainers arms steadying Aelita to a proper standing position. “I was… watching you work out, because you seemed really into it. Are you going to be okay? You probably shouldn’t walk anywhere alon-”

 

“I’m  _fine_. Jesus.” she slaps the hands away, skin crawling with the brief contact. That heat in her chest, the frustration was rising. She just wanted to  _exercise and forget_. Why couldn’t her body just give her that  _one_  request, just that one thing and nothing else. Aelita wanted to be sore, to be too tired to care that her life was crumbling. She stumbles away, ignoring the calls of the trainer, the eyes at her back as she storms to the locker room, intent on getting away from that place as soon as possible. She’d have to change gyms, they probably all thought she was weak.

 

Wait, who gave a flying  _fuck_  what anyone thought? If they thought she was weak, they could challenge her strength, give her a reason to release the pent up energy in her knuckles and the fire beneath her nails. The locker room is private, secluded enough for Lita to feel comfortable staring at herself in the mirror for a moment. Her face wasn’t filthy with blood, but she looked like she’d been on the winning side of a fight. Hair wild, skin darker with the sheen of sweat, dried blood clinging to the strap of her bra.

 

“Hey, I’m sorry if I-” there’s hands on Aelita’s shoulders and she flinches, reacting instantly. Her hand reaches for a gun that isn’t there anymore, and her body twists, free hand grabbing her assailant and pinning them back against the wall. With a meek sound of defeat, she had realized it was the same blonde from before, wearing the same  _fucking_  outfit.

 

“U-um!” she’s red in the face, a brighter shade than the darkness of Aelita’s locks, and the stammering, stupid blonde is at a loss for words. Flames are kissing Lita’s ears tenderly, whispering,  _daring_  her to do it. But nothing happens for a moment. They simply stare at each other, and the intensity to the detective’s glare never lessens.

 

“Sorry.” she breathes, chest heaving with the motion as her grip on the woman’s arm finally loosens. She’s beginning to deflate. Her knuckles are cold, itchy, and she can feel the sensation beginning to spread as she takes more refreshing breaths of crisp air. “I’m sorry, I’m- I’ve been having a  _shit_  day and I’m on edge. Please don’t call the cops, I’m sorry.” the apology, weak and tired, spills from an exhausted woman, flames finally dying out and leaving her skin singed. She’s itchy, cold, and dying for a shower.

 

The girl, whose hair had been undone from its preppy little bun in the madness, could only nod. “It’s cool. Just…” she’s rubbing her forearm, trying to consider her next words carefully. “Careful, okay? You’re going to hurt yourself if you work out like that.”

 

“And if I want to? That’s none of your business.” the words are sharp like a blade, icy, something the heat in her chest couldn’t have given her. And it scares Aelita because it’s  _true_  and she knows it.

 

“It’s none of my business, but…” the girl bites her lip, as if caught in a predicament. As if remembering something, her eyes brighten. “It’s  _Valentine’s Day_! What could have a cute woman like you so peeved? If you need help keying up some cheating bastards’ car, my shift’s up in 5.” the air of familiarity, the joke, catches Aelita unaware, and she’s left staring at this woman, a girl she nearly mauled in cold blood moments ago. She must have been crazy, right?

 

“You’re weird.” she forgets modesty, because there isn’t much of that left in her body these days, as she turns towards one of the shower stalls, pulling at the fabric of her sports bra as she stepped towards the running water. “For your information, there’s no cheating bastard. Nothing that mundane.” the water’s running, so she’s talking a little louder. Why was she still talking,  _why was this girl still here?_

 

Paranoia tries to set in, but Lita’s stripping and washing it off her skin before it has a chance to take hold. Showers are always a remedy to the sensations that come with exercise. The discomfort and sore joints were all healed by the miracle that was modern plumbing and running water. Not again.

 

“Then why come to a gym on Valentine’s Day?” the woman is still there, and Aelita’s really confused now. Somehow, the idea of nudity hadn’t sent the girl running, and she wasn’t getting the unspoken message that she should just leave. To her, that was like lacking a sense of self-preservation, not knowing when to quit. Something she could personally understand.

 

So she humors the woman’s query a little further. “I like the showers. And today’s my day off from work. Got to stay in shape.” she’s letting the steam kiss her cheeks, water running along her choppy bangs and down her backside. She could clearly see the mop of blonde hair through the steam, but the woman wasn’t facing Lita. Or at least, it didn’t seem that way.

 

“And that’s why you worked yourself up to a nosebleed? You could have a hemorrhage, you know.” there’s concern, but Lita doesn’t bother to acknowledge it. It’s probably fake, cordial because this girl feels obligated to do her job and be as cute and understanding as possible.

 

“Like I said, none of your business.” she bites back over the hissing of the shower, and she can hear the faintest lit of a laugh over the noise.

 

“None of my business. But, your nose is still bleeding.” there’s mirth to her voice, and Aelita genuinely considers jumping out of the shower to maim the woman. It would be messy, but there was merit to being naked and in the shower already.

 

“I’m sorry, who  _are_  you? Personal gym fairy? A doctor?” she’s snappish and doesn’t really care that her voice raises a pitch at the accusation.

 

The blonde laughs easily, and Aelita realizes that she’s not in view anymore, her voice a little distant. “Part time trainer, part time EMT, full time pain in the ass.” she introduces. Lita hates that the response makes her smile, so she doesn’t bother to think about it, running her fingers through her hair once more, along her body, soap masking the curve to her breast and swell to her hips. If her nose was bleeding, it would get clean sooner or later.

 

“Can I get a  _name?_  If you’re going to peep on me showering, I deserve that much at least.” exasperated, rinsing soapy foam off her skin, peeling back the hardened shell just a little bit more.

 

“Bijou. Are you inviting me to watch you or something?” the shower water comes to a stop, and Aelita steps out to see the woman had changed into a more casual outfit, jeans and a crisp blue tank top, jacket strung over her shoulders. Maybe she was going home herself? “I-I wasn’t serious,  _shit_.” Lita nearly cackles as the woman blushes and covers her eyes. Modesty really was dead to the detective.

 

“Eh, once you’ve seen one nipple you’ve seen em all. Besides, you work at a  _gym_ , I’m sure you’ve seen much worse.” she’s humming as she dresses, a Latin tune from one of her playlists. As she’s lacing up her boots, she whistles out. “You can open your eyes, you know! I’m decent. Well, I’m dressed. Not really decent of mind or spirit.” the joke comes from… somewhere in her, and Aelita’s confused again. Wasn’t she agitated?

 

Had this woman’s presence simply been enough to take the edge off?

 

Either way, Bijou laughs and opens her eyes, blinking once she notices the detective’s state of dress. “You dress very… different, from how I’d expect.” Lita looks down to her comfort wears. A white t-shirt stenciled with the words “Chang’s Wasabi!” in bold red print, a grossly yellow jacket, and jeans that were torn around the ankles. She quirks an eyebrow. “What’d you expect? More sports bras and shorts?”

 

“Yeah, actually. You’re  _ripped_. With arms or abs like yours, I’d wear tank tops all the time, nonstop.” She’s following Aelita out, and now that she isn’t in such a bad mood, Aelita notices that the gym was empty. Had everyone really left while she was showering? Or maybe, it was never as crowded as she thought? Either way, it was interesting.

 

“And you’re still following me.” she doesn’t accept the compliment this time, instead smiling. “What, you don’t want to spend Valentine’s Day alone? A pretty girl like you must have something better to do.” they’re in the parking lot, and a small voice in Aelita’s head is telling her something, but her chest, her heart, isn’t really paying attention. This turned from a shitty night into something interesting again.

 

“N-no? I was just gonna go home and watch some TV. Maybe eat some chocolates by myself.” Aelita could see it, truthfully. Short, chubby blonde curled up beneath some plush blankets, makeup gone, the light of a TV illuminating her brown eyes. And she was smiling again. The question was on her tongue, but never asked.

 

Instead, “My name’s Aelita. And uh… thanks. I feel better, thanks to your stalking and peeping.” she gives a wide smile, gap-tooth showing and all, and the girl can only sputter in embarrassment, words caught on her tongue.

 

“I-I was  _not_  peeping. You basically  _flashed_  me. And I live around here!” They’re walking and talking, and Aelita genuinely thought the girl was walking her home, trying to maybe see where she lived? But either way, it didn’t seem like much of an issue. And she won’t allow her paranoia to make something out of it if she could help it.

 

“Whatever, whatever. I still feel lightheaded, if you must know. What if I have a hemmhorage, like you said?” she was completely fine, but snake tongues charmed, so she did. The flames were more agreeable now, building up in the palm that brushes against Bijou’s flushed cheek. “And you have a fever! Your face is all hot. What, did  _you_  overheat from watching me in the showers? Amazing, such a lewd stalker.”

 

“S-shut up, Aelita!”

 

“Hm, how about no?” her voice is chipper and she’s laughing as they cross the street to reach her neighborhood, right on the edges of the 'shady’ parts of town. It was interesting that Bijou lived around these parts, that she wasn’t fearful of burglars or the lunacy that seemed to stick to Paradise like a plague.

 

When the woman stopped walking, just as Aelita was nearing her house, she raised an eyebrow. “You’re my  _neighbor_?” she asks. Their apartments were right next to each other’s, and the blonde’s response was just as shocked.

 

“Wait, you’re the one making those scratching sounds on my wall at night? I was plotting bloody murder.”

 

“That was my  _cat_. Holy hell, this is perfect.” she’s laughing, this is probably a good day, right? She was… this was normal. Felt like a genuine interaction, for the first time in god knows how long, and the flames weren’t consuming her, things were finally good. She follows the woman into her apartment, not deciding to comment on the act, or the choice in decor that Bijou chose. It was… homey. Old pictures of people she didn’t recognize hung on walls, carpet beneath their feet, and a tiny room with a futon, a little kitchenette too.

 

“I would suggest getting your cat declawed, then. Because those are some  _talons_. Do you want a beer?”

 

“That’s his name! And yeah, whatever you have is good with me.” Something about the progression of conversation feels natural. She’s not sure just when a beer had found its way into her hands, or when they began to talk about small stuff, movies, music, Bijou’s job. It flowed easily, and the flames didn’t return.

 

“It’s… weird that we’ve just met, right?” Aelita isn’t sure how her body isn’t burning right now, alcohol buzzing through her skin like an obnoxious pest, her skin pressing against Bijou’s. They’re on her bed, the girl’s thick legs wrapped around Aelita securely. Somewhere along the talking, there was a jest about how light the blonde likely is, how her weight is mostly muscle, and their current position was supposed to attest to that…?

 

But Aelita couldn’t stop smelling the sweetness of perfume that she could now identify as honeysuckle, wafting from Bijou’s hair.

 

“Is it? The stars would have had us meet eventually, yeah?” it’s a bitter joke that no one would understand, but it makes Lita snicker anyways. Her body’s warm. For this one night, she could just…  _let go_  of her grief. “Besides, you liked stalking me and I enjoy having cute girls patch me up, it was made to be.”

 

“Do you… hurt yourself like that often?” the question catches the redhead off guard, but she’s still smiling, as if she’s amused. It’s a wounding blow, but she could take it.

 

“No, no. I was being dramatic earlier.”

 

“You weren’t.” a short, quick denial that sounds too sure, as if the woman could see straight though her deception.

 

“You’re right.” The detective relents instantly, smile still there, but weaker. “But I don’t actually hurt myself. Just, I work out a lot. It… helps.”

 

“There’s more productive ways to deal with stress, you know.” and the grins are back. There’s no weight to the air and Aelita’s heart is light enough to lift her against Bijou, lips barely pressing.

 

“Oh? I’m sure you’ll show me a few, stalker.”

 

A blush, stuttering, as her momentarily coolness is shattered. “S-shut up and kiss me.”

 

* * *

 

 

Anja isn’t fully sure just  _how_  Shavonne could throw back shot after shot, but it was interesting to watch. Tomato juice calmed her anxiety, got rid of the sickly quality to her flesh after a few cups, rejuvenated her. And they must have been an odd pair for a bar, one girl talking excitedly about astronomy, the divination of stars and their meanings, chugging back gin like it was flat water. Her partner nodding quietly along, sipping at a little glass with a branch of cilantro in it. Maybe the girl did need a few drinks, being penned up in the penthouse probably wasn’t the best idea.

 

As the night drew on, Anja could only become more conscious of their location, and how she was going to get Vonnie out of the establishment. At the time her phone read midnight, the woman decided to stop the festivities for the night. Even if it was generally the girl talking aimlessly while she listened and nodded, they could go home and do that.

 

“We should get going, Von.” voice of silk, as she puts down her cup, dabbing her lips with a napkin.

 

“Hm? But I wanted to tell you about Ceres and how  _cool_  it is that asteroids can give you proper approximations of your past lives.” big words for a drunk, but Shavonne doesn’t slur. The only indication that she might have had too much to drink was the way her body began to tilt when Anja grabbed her hand. She paid for the drinks, smiling cordially to the bartender once more.

 

“You and ya girl get home safe, alright? There’s monsters roamin these streets at night, so be careful.” the older woman has a distinct accent that was hard to decipher at times, but Anja had slowly come around to it as the hours had passed. She didn’t even bother to correct her this time, instead nodding earnestly.

 

“Yes, thank you Darlene. We’ll see you again. Thank you very much for the drinks.” robotic responses, but a gentle voice, always gentle. Shavonne’s babbling incomprehensibly about comet trails as she’s lead out of the establishment, Anja’s hand around hers like a patient parent guiding an excitable child.

 

How had she come into the possession of her own child again? Was this… warmth in her chest, the acceptance of company, a part of that humanity she was desperately seeking?

 

Her thoughts are somber as they walk, but the empty quality to her face reveals nothing. They arrive at the threadbare apartment, and Anja focuses just to hear what her friend is talking about now.

 

“I didn’t really think  _*hic*_ , I’d get to… I dunno, find peace.” she sounds tired now, as if talk about the stars had somehow tired her out. Anja’s wordlessly staring, setting the girl down and trying to be practical about her next move. She’d need to get a shower running, painkillers, and a lot of water. But she could listen a little longer.

 

“Find peace?” Anja sits at the futon, while Shavonne haphazardly plops down, steadying herself before she could fall over.

 

“Ah, y-yeah. After… my parents, I went through  _hell_  man, like.” she hiccups again, and something catches in her throat like she’s about to start crying, but the tears don’t come. A shaky gasp, and she goes again.

 

“I spent so much time just  _hoping_  that all of what the stars read was true. Hoping that my life would find a balance one day. That I wouldn’t have to deal with shitty homes and shittier people. That you would e- _explain_ …”

 

“You should take a shower.” the words leave Anja’s mouth so quickly. so harshly, that it feels like she’s spitting something in Russian. Her voice is thick with something unidentifiable, and she doesn’t give more space for conversation, she’s acting. The woman stands easily, walking away to run the shower as she tries to collect herself. She couldn’t just… she couldn’t talk about that, right? Not  _now_ , at least.

 

She turns to get the bottled water and painkillers, but is greeted with a sight. Topless, Shavonne’s t-shirt hangs around her neck while she struggles to kick off her flats and jeans, limbs flailing awkwardly. She trips over the loose fabric, and Anja’s fast enough to catch the drunk, sighing to herself. Within about 30 seconds, Shavonne had managed to get herself into a weird situation, amazing.

 

The shower water feels warmer than she remembers, and Shavonne is lighter than she expected. There’s a weight to her shoulders, a history. Faded scars travelling down her backside, slash marks near her breasts, and a birth mark on her inner thigh. The water is warmer, and Anja is trying not to focus on any of that, or on  _whatever_  Von’s doing now as her fingers press a sponge against onyx skin, soaping her up generously.

 

“You’re not hopeless. The stars have lead you back to me, right?” she doesn’t know what she’s saying, or why, but it shuts Shavonne up from her latest rant. The girl’s eyes are wide, and she starts to cry into Anja’s shoulder, a wail, and then subsequent sobs as her thick hair brushes against a creamy, bony shoulder.

 

“You’re too  _nice_. You always have been, since we were kids and I-”

 

“Stop it.” Anja’s tone is curt and sharp, but her hands are still so gentle, too nurturing for the monster that she really was. The same beast that had ruined lives, ruined this poor girl, was now nursing her. “Take a deep breath. We’re not kids anymore, but I’ll still take care of you, yeah?” the tone is soft again, soap washing over her breasts now, and Shavonne feels too warm, too comfortable in Anja’s grasp.

 

The gentle snores that Shavonne give off are enough to soothe Anja’s budding nerves, as she dries and dresses the girl in a nightgown. Moonlight kisses her futon as she carefully lays the girl on her back, looking to her with weary eyes.

 

Humanity was tiring, but it was something Anja desperately craved, for this moment. She looks hesitantly at the empty space besides her friend, and indulges herself for one night, burying herself beneath the blankets and against a warm body for the first time in ages.

 

Even if she was rubbed raw and exposed, it wouldn’t be so bad. Not if she could have this.


End file.
